The Devil Wears a Black Jacket
by DamnLazyWriter
Summary: "You ask a lot of questions, babydoll. I tell you what. You let me in outta this rain, and maybe we can have some real conversation. Sounds good, don't it?" Loneliness can often cause one to have a severe lapse in judgment. Will Colette's kindness prove as a fatal misstep? The devil wears a black jacket.


**I  
** **The Second Little Piggy**

Before his death, Alfonso imparted me with two intimate details of his life that I'd never known.

One: He'd murdered his best friend, and two: he'd rather spend twenty years out here than a month in solitary confinement. He promised me that there was nothing like loneliness. In turn, as he laid dying in my arms, I promised him that I would never be alone; that I would always find someone to stick with. I've also learned within in these past few months that promises can be broken… especially the ones you make to the dead.

I'll never know why Alf took the life of a person that was precious to him. I didn't ask. I just opted to watch the life fade from his eyes. My blade punctured his skull, I shoveled him back into the arms of the earth, my hands soft with blisters and blood that wasn't mine. I wasn't alone then. The dead were all around me—buried, burned, shambling and grizzled, rotting skin clinging to brittle bones, their groans and gurgles a necrotic symphony.

After a while you start to wonder when you stopped looking at them as people. Maybe it is the moment when all of their faces meld together; a macabre tessellation of grotesque, oozing skin, and putrid nests of bubbling gray flesh. They all look the same. Hollowed eye sockets, black tongues, maggots sopping from odorous boils like fetid seeds. All they want is to sink their teeth into your soft, human body. They have simple desires. But they aren't the real monsters. No… they are the triggers that let the real monsters free. They are the gate keepers. That was the very last thing I learned. And I learned it when I met Negan.

 **x**

The river was going to flood the valley. The rain had been relentless this season, swelling the beast like a massive python that had, purely out of greed, feasted well beyond its body proportions. I knew it was going to be difficult. I took the risk and spent a few days down hill scavenging for supplies. There wasn't much left. The area had been picked cleaned. It would be far too dangerous to find shelter elsewhere, so I stuck to my cabin uphill, where I had a view of desolated sky scrapers that were once teeming with life.

I didn't get much. I'd only managed to grab a few antibiotics, a small bottle of peroxide, and a package of freeze dried pineapples that had been buried underneath some rubble. My water would have to come from buckets I'd set up to catch the rain. My set up was meager-far from charming, but at the very least faintly cozy. It was hard to appreciate that coziness when one had to be on constant alert.

The entire wooden cabin was simply a two room shelter with a worn fireplace and modern wood stove. The floors were rickety. The walls groaned agonizingly when the wind howled. I'd boarded the windows up with some old scrap I'd found a couple of yards into the woods. When I'd discovered the place, no one had been occupying it, living or dead. A thorough sweep of the perimeter confirmed that the surrounding forest was empty of squatters. Things were quiet. Unnervingly so.

Even still, I stayed. The days passed. I'd hunted small rodents and cooked them fresh. I set barriers, occasionally cleaned out walkers, and swept the property frequently for threats. During my breaks I'd thrown myself into reading ancient yellowing paperbacks I'd found stuffed in various crooks around the cabin. Most of the novels were of the 80's variety: _The Color Purple, Matilda, The Joy Luck Club,_ Stephen King, and Roald Dahl miscellany. They devoured my time and filled the growing void of loneliness that was slowly consuming me. No matter what, these books could not satiate my building desire for some kind of companionship… even when I tried to deny it or sleep it off.

About a month in, just before the fierce rains were going to hit me, I'd pulled out a pocket calendar Alf had gotten me. I hadn't even realized that my birthday had passed. I was now thirty-two… but there was no good liquor, as Alf had promised. He would never find the means to make me a cake with buttercream frosting and maple glazed pecans. These had all been pipe dreams discussed around campfires. We knew that these desires weren't realistic, but that didn't keep us from trading our fantasies of sugary confectioneries wetting our starved tastebuds. We had wondered if, or when, we'd be able indulge these things again. We often sat, mystified, that things like hot showers and microwaves used to be cheap commodities.

And now he was gone. I couldn't talk about those things with him anymore. I had bigger concerns; more pressing horrors to contemplate. Raiders, murderers, rapists. Gangs of all of these people. Walkers meshed into massive clouds of roaming hordes. I had to worry about sickness, starvation, and keeping warm. I had to worry about not being bitten. And more recently, I had to worry about drowning.

Regardless, I was prepared when the river finally burst its confines. Looking downhill I could see it wearing at the earth like a flood of dark molasses. Trees were torn from their roots. Buildings were ripped apart, flushed violently downstream in an ebullient rush of mud and foam. It widened its berth and spilled into the valley, sinking into long dead farm land, turning tractors into twist metal boats. Walkers fell to the tide, swept and swallowed.

This was bad. I was worried. The rain was showing no sign of slowing up, and it only got worse, making me wonder if evacuation was imminent. Still… there was no way the water would climb as high as the hill top. That was impossible. And so foolishly perhaps, I stayed, waiting out the worst and hoping for the best.

 **x**

I was reading when I heard the profuse jiggling of the doorknob. I stiffened, rigid as a cut of ice, my ears perked up painfully. This sound wasn't the house. It wasn't manufactured by wind, rain, or some other natural manifestation. It was deliberate and hard and persistent. It was intelligent… and an intelligent threat was the worst possible kind of threat.

I deftly folded the book closed, slithering lithely from my position on the couch, and reached out to palm the revolver I'd left on a nearby bookshelf. A few maneuvering clicks confirmed I was working with a full deck of ammunition. Making sure my hunting blade was secured in my belt, I aimed the gun at the door, ghosting forward with soft steps. The jiggling stopped. So did I. I froze, shoulders rigid, my gun aimed at the center of the door.

"Don't know how to knock?" Despite my terror, I was pleasantly surprised at how firm my voice sounded in my ears. It seemed like ages since I'd properly used it. My finger trembled against the trigger. I was ready to squeeze at a moment's notice—ready to reduce any potential threat to bloody pulp and bone fragments were the circumstance permissible. I was a not a large woman by any measure. I was thin, slightly shorter than average, and hardly much of a visible threat. It was ideal for me to down a target before giving them a chance to do real harm.

I waited. The power in my voice seemed to hold no sway against my invader, and thus began a round of muted _thumps_ against the front door. I felt myself grow cold. I didn't want to shoot, but I would sooner do so than be put down by god-knows-whoever was behind that flimsy piece of wood.

"I'm armed!" I finally barked, my heart riding into my throat along with my adrenaline, "Don't think for a second that I won't pull the trigger! Cut the shit!"

The bumping and thumping ceased almost instantly. I didn't let my guard down. My gun hovered straight ahead. Goosebumps trailed over my skin as my adrenaline spiked once again.

" _Sweetheart… now that is_ no _kind of way to talk to someone who's already been shot. Well god damn! I was hoping for some_ real _hospitality! Now why'd you have to go and disappoint me like that?"_

Once again I found myself paralyzed. That velveteen voice was like smooth warm whiskey, burnished with an unnervingly devilish charm. An intense wave of chills scoured my spine and raked at the back of my neck. I swallowed dryly, squaring my stance, taking a breath.

"You've been shot? Who else are you here with?" I spat with false bravado. "What'd you get shot for? Did you deserve it?"

There was a rugged laugh, followed by a faint grunt. When he spoke again he did so with a noticeable amount of weakness. _"You ask a lot of questions, babydoll. I tell you what. You let me in outta this rain, and maybe we can have some_ real _conversation. Sounds good, don't it?"_

I fidgeted. This man, whoever he was, was absolutely fucking insane if he thought I was going to let him in. My instincts were screaming at me to let him bleed out somewhere—if he'd really been shot, that is. The entire thing could be some kind of ruse to take me for everything I owned. It could be a set up to end me. A group of pillagers could be waiting for me outside; waiting to make a big jump.

But for some reason, I felt compelled to listen to that small inkling of humanity that was tapping the edge of my mind. This man—if he was truly hurt, and if he was truly not a threat, could I allow myself to bare the guilt of letting him bleed to death? I reckoned that I couldn't. I had no time to be indecisive, so I half-assed a plan right then and there.

" _You're taking a mighty long time to make up your mind."_ His voice growled. The velveteen lilt was gone, and this time there was a menacing edge to his tone. I could hear the rain on the roof now. It was getting harder, more demanding, slapping the cabin in waving sheets.

If he was a threat, I'd shoot him. If he even moved the wrong way, I'd end his life. If he looked at me strangely, I'd bash his skull in with the butt of the revolver. And if there was anyone else outside… well, I'd open fire on them and take out as many as possible. Without taking a second more to contemplate, I pushed forward, yanking open the door and giving it a wide berth.

"Well, _shit._ " Came his voice. My eyes immediately darted downwards. He'd propped himself up against the door before I'd opened it. Without the leverage, the man was wobbling dangerously, threatening to slump back. "Just when I thought you were going to be a total cunt and let me bleed out like a fucking animal, you come a-runnin' to the rescue. You. Are. _Something_."

The man wavered once more. His eyes rolled shut and he fell back, his body hitting the wood of the threshold with a hard thud.

So much for real conversation.


End file.
